


The Heart, Unbeating

by ChatoyantPenumbra



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dimitri done did collected his womans, Dimitri finds out Byleth doesn’t have a heartbeat, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, basically the scene between The Sealed Forest Snare And Byleth waking in Rhea’s lap, death scare, light fluff, temporarily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 14:21:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20875646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatoyantPenumbra/pseuds/ChatoyantPenumbra
Summary: Following the fight against Solon and Kronya, Dimitri rushes Byleth to help when she faints from the exhaustion of fusing with Sothis. But her lack of a heartbeat sends him spiraling into a panic when he’s with her, alone.





	The Heart, Unbeating

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAA here it is. I apologize for the clunky writing in the first half, it’s hard to write around dialogue that’s already pre-written by someone else, but I’ll make sure to go back and amend it soon so it flows better.
> 
> For now, please enjoy!

It’s over. 

Dimitri watches Solon fall with his own eyes, struck down by the Sword of the Creator that Byleth wields.

His thoughts of Thales and the Flame Emperor weigh heavily upon him even as he rushes to his Professor’s side to make sure she’s truly alright. Given her appearance… he’s not sure what to think, but as he draws nearer, the cuts in her clothing don’t seem so bad. She looks as she always has, with a sharp wit and knowing countenance. She doesn’t seem to be injured much at all, despite the lengths she just went through to break out of what he can only assume was another dimension. 

Before he can even catch his breath enough to filter himself, he’s already speaking. 

“Professor… I’m glad you’re okay. And you seem relatively unscathed. I’m…” He struggles, as always, to gather the right words, but they come tumbling out nonetheless, “_ I’m so relieved. _”

Byleth looks at him like he’s so used to, with a tenderness he wishes was reserved only for him—

He stops himself short, quick to reroute to another topic for fear of making the conversation too personal. There are far more important matters at hand… like the fact that she’s finally managed to claim the justice he knows she so very much deserves. His heart feels a bittersweet, empathetic pride, even if he can’t claim the same justice for himself yet.

“What’s more, Jeralt’s foe is dead. Though we took little satisfaction from it.”

The emotional shift in her gaze meets his in that way that vices him, her striking emerald eyes bringing out the color of her hair, but it compliments her in a different way now that seems so incredibly foreign, and yet… somehow strangely familiar, and he can’t resist the urge to point it out again now that they finally have the chance to speak of it.

“Professor… I must ask. What happened after we were separated? You look… different.”

He supposes it’s a rather stupid thing to say, considering anyone with eyes to see can make an observation like that without having to mention the obvious, but he’s never been good with flawless grace around her. Even still, she’s never seemed to mind.

“The goddess gifted me with her power,” she responds, so matter-of-factly that it nearly makes his head spin. Nevertheless, there’s something in that gaze of hers that tells him it wasn’t entirely unexpected. It piques his interest more than he can help.

“The goddess appeared… and gave you her power? It’s as though… the legend of old has been made flesh. It’s hard to grasp, in all honesty. But having seen you pierce the sky with my own eyes, I find myself unable to doubt it.”

Her head tilts, just a hair, and he watches her now-mint-colored brow quirk in curiosity. “A legend of old?”

He nearly laughs. She’s just been transformed by the goddess herself, and yet she’s curious to hear about old legends. 

She never ceases to amaze him.

But even so, he’s happy to humor her question. “Yes. The legend of Saint Seiros. It is said that she received a divine revelation from the goddess and was gifted with her power. Long ago, the goddess dispatched Seiros to defeat an evil king who went mad with power. Perhaps the goddess saw the goodness of Seiros within you too, and wished to help you in your quest to defeat evil.”

He pauses, unable to help ruminating about the purity that he’s seen inside of her since he truly started to understand her nature. It only makes sense—she’s always been the light to the Blue Lions, _ to him _. But of course she would feel so bright to a soul as dark as his. In comparison, she’s blinding, while he’s the deepest pit of darkness he knows…

He hums thoughtfully, saying something he’s sure he wouldn’t have if he’d just been a little more careful, “If you’re Seiros, granted power by the goddess, then I suppose that makes me…” The Prince catches himself before he can add anything else that might make her think twice about him at a time like this. “_ Ah, _ never mind. I’m getting carried away.”

Byleth’s eyes suddenly widen, as if she’s been struck by what he left unsaid, and he’s on the verge of apologizing for his lack of restraint. 

But before he has the chance to react, she collapses to the ground as quickly as a fallen soldier, completely dead weight when she hits the grass. 

“_ Professor, what’s wrong?! _”

He starts, alarmed, dropping to his knees to kneel over her, before he realizes that she is, indeed, breathing. The rise and fall of her chest is all that keeps him from losing his composure as his hand gently shakes her shoulder. 

“Are you… uh… Are you asleep?” Dedue watches him grow pensive as he draws back, brows pulling closer together. “What is happening these days…? Well, it matters not. We must get you some help, and fast.”

Dimitri exchanges a short glance with Mercedes, who looks as at a loss as he does. Dismay quickly sinks in. She can’t help, it seems, and the Prince feels something twist in his chest as he realizes he has little other option than to…

“Sorry Professor, but I have no choice but to carry you back.”

And he doesn’t have time to deliberate on how embarrassed he should be, considering the circumstances. 

Dimitri curls an arm under her form, and he’s instantly met with the warmth of her, radiating against the skin of his hands nipped by the chilly air. Even her dead weight means little to him, lifting her as easily as he would a child into his arms and supporting both her shoulders and the backs of her knees with his arms as he braces her against his chest. Dedue steps closer, but a shake of the Blaiddyd’s head is all it takes for his vassal to realize there’s nothing he can do to insist on helping. 

“I can manage on my own, Dedue. Thank you.”

“But it would be easier if I—”

Dimitri spares a smile. “Truly. I will be fine. Let us just get the Professor to safety.”

* * *

The way back to the monastery is a rather quick one, but not fast enough with every passing moment that Dimitri’s professor remains unconscious in his arms. It tolls like a clock tower at the back of his mind, each strike growing louder as if to mark something impending. He tries to tell himself that she’ll be just fine—after all, she always is, and she’s led them out of near-death situations before with such ease that sometimes he thinks she might actually be invincible. But clutching her like he is, the painful reality that she’s only human, despite how she is imbued with the goddess’ power, cuts him deep.

His mind loops back over that, struggling to wrap his head around what she really is now, but he’s quick to berate himself for letting it slow him down. He knows he has a much more important focus demanding his attention. 

The rest of the Blue Lions group splits away as he marches ahead towards the reception hall, ascending the stairs as quickly as he can manage without breaking into a full run. The knights spot him, and though he cannot see their faces, their bodies quickly translate their state of concern.

“Take her to the infirmary. We’ll fetch Manuela at once.”

The room is near dead silent as he waits, sitting in a chair he’s pulled up to the bedside. Irritation ticks at the back of his skull, and he tries his best not to lose his temper or allow his fingers at his knees to tap with impatience. Professor Manuela has never been known for her timeliness or a proper sense of responsibility, but at a time like this, it’s beyond ridiculous. He’s sure it’s been ten minutes since they’ve informed her of his own Professor’s state, and yet she’s nowhere to be found. Just the silence of the room and the sound of his own breathing.

The sound of his own breathing…

Dimitri realizes suddenly that the Professor’s does not accompany his, and his cerulean gaze darts to her face, then her chest. He can’t see the rise and fall of it, and it’s as if suddenly ice plunges into his veins and freezes his being solid. He snaps himself out of it, standing so abruptly that the chair croaks in complaint against the wooden floorboards as it’s forced back, and within a split second he’s peeling off his vambrace and searching with his bare fingers for the pulse he’s desperate to find in her carotid artery. 

He can’t feel a thing. 

His fingers adjust. They shift lower along her neck. 

Nothing.

If anyone had been watching, he’s sure they would see the desperate panic in his eyes, but it’s the last thing on his mind as he drops the useless attempt to find her pulse before dipping his entire torso down in an invasive, embarrassing movement that feels like a punishable crime, one he would never dare to commit under other circumstances. His ear presses to her chest—warm, he notices, quickly—and he stills, listening for a heartbeat. 

No no no. 

** _No no no no no._ **

He can’t hear anything. Nothing at all. 

The panic raises every hair on his neck, like hackles on a beast. He feels like he’s running out of time—_ no, _that he’s already run out of time, and as his head rises again and shaking fingers search her neck for a pulse once more, this time on the other side, his other hand finds its way to her face, brushing her still-shocking colored bangs from her eyes. 

She’s warm. So warm. Like she’s still living. A warm corpse. Just like Glenn and his father. 

The Tragedy of Duscur paints his mind red with the infernal flames that had surrounded him as a child. 

He can’t shake those thoughts as they penetrate his mind and heart like a lance right through his chest, and he’s trembling—

“Professor, _ please— _”

He tries the only remaining method he has, a hair’s breadth away from attempting resuscitation. He cradles her head, and with his shaking other, he holds it before her nose, growing deathly still, as though he himself is dead.

But his heart hammers in his ears like the drums of war.

Warmth blooms against his fingers. 

Breath. 

It’s _ so painfully _ faint, but it’s still there. She’s breathing. There’s no heartbeat or pulse he can feel, no rise and fall of her chest he can see, but she’s breathing.

Miraculously, somehow, she’s breathing. 

He pulls back, laughing humorlessly in disbelief, both at the situation and himself for losing his composure so quickly. He looks down at his hands and they’re shaking violently, and despite his iron will and clenching them in a kingly command to _ stop, _ they continue on nonetheless. 

His gaze is distracted only by the twitch of her fingers in her slumber, and suddenly he wishes he could touch her, wishes she were awake and he could tell her how glad he is that she’s okay. Her hand beckons to him, and no matter how he struggles against it he can’t resist the urge that forces him to reach down with a conflicted hesitation, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing her thumb.

And like it’s the simplest thing in the world, the feathering touch alone almost entirely erases the tremor in his hands.

Abruptly, he pulls his hand back, snapping himself out of the trance he finds himself in as he looks at her when she’s so serene. 

_ This is inappropriate. What if the others were here? I would never do this in front of them— _

Dimitri steps back with a deep inhale, trying to calm the thundering in his chest that acts as a complete antithesis to hers.

Maybe they _ are _ opposites in more ways than he had previously realized. 

“I need to make sure I tell someone…”

He exits the infirmary, adjusting the collar of his uniform to make it just _ a little easier to breathe, _ making his way to the end where the entry of the Archbishop’s hall remains closed. The Knight of Seiros posted at the entrance nods approvingly at him, so he pushes the massive door open, as easily as he would a curtain to yield his entrance. 

Rhea stands facing him, still as stone, as though she was expecting him. He can never quite get over how her gaze unnerves him. Like she sees right through the façade of a put-together prince that he puts up. Like it doesn’t fool her when it fools everyone else. And yet, she still smiles. He can’t tell if it’s completely genuine.

“Dimitri… to what do I owe this visit? Have you news of our dear Professor’s condition?”

“Yes, about that—unfortunately, I have yet to see Professor Manuela, and the Professor… I thought she had stopped breathing, so I checked her pulse. I cannot feel one. She is still breathing, however, but her heart—”

He realizes he’s said too much when that look of understanding in her eyes deepens. He feels it even more intensely now, that she can see through not only his façade but every other emotion that he hides. His fear; his infatuation; _ his love, _ if he’s even capable of such a thing—she can see it clear as day. He tries to pretend that doesn’t bother him as he shifts under her gaze.

“I thought it best I came to you for help. You can do more than I can.”

“Rest assured, Dimitri, no misfortune will befall her today. Bring her to me.”

The request strikes him, gives him a purpose that’s more than just idling here and asking someone else for help. He places his hand over his heart amid a brief bow, and he thanks her before he retreats from the room. 

Rhea’s eyes follow him until he exits. It isn’t until he returns supporting his Professor in his arms that she seats herself upon the steps leading to the Archbishop’s throne, beckoning him with her outstretched hands to bring Byleth closer. 

In her many years, she has seldom seen anyone hold another with as much tenderness as he. Even as he begins to kneel, he does so with a gentleness uncanny of the strength of which she knows he is capable. She has heard whispers of him snapping his lances in two during training as easily as one would a twig, so to display as much care as he does now…

She is sure she can trust him with the one possessing her mother’s blessing.

Rhea looks into his eyes as Dimitri is distracted with laying Byleth upon her lap, noticing how his bare hand cradles the back of her head. 

She smiles knowingly. Surely, _ he is in love. _

“I will take it from here; thank you. You are free to go.”

The Prince of Faerghus stands to his full height, careful not to let his eyes linger too long upon his Professor when he knows he’s being watched. Even still, the attempt is in vain. She notices, nonetheless. 

“Of course. If you need me, I’ll be in the Knights Hall.”

He gives another brief bow and departs, his footsteps echoing hollowly along the tall walls of the room as he goes.

The sound of the Archbishop’s gentle voice in song meet his ears as the hall’s doors close behind him, light and sweet as wind chimes amid a gentle breeze.

But he can’t shake the feeling that Byleth’s time is now, somehow, limited. He grows as cold as the icy winds in Fhirdiad, as his heart twists, hoping with desperation that his intuition is giving way to insanity, if only for her sake.

But on the tower bell tolls.


End file.
